


Loyal To What Matters

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, fuck tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-09-22 09:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It had been a mistake to answer Mary's letter and it would be a mistake to run away with John, as much as he was desperate for it. John had a family, and he...More ghost than person.Maybe he was a coward.





	1. We Are Abraham's Descendants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR SPOILERS. events of Chapter 5 and 6 discussed below. i tried not to go into too much detail for those who haven't played that far, but you've been warned.
> 
> some events will be changed for the sake of this AU. no TB here, Arthur deserves better.

Camp had been shrinking, little by little; they're all afraid to be out on their own, but it's become clear that Dutch can no longer juggle the loyalties of his growing dissidents. A few had taken that opportunity to vanish: Tilly, Lenny, Pearson, Abigail, Marybeth, narrowly saving themselves from a bitter death for a way of life that's looking less and less honorable. And it weren't that they didn't know they were criminals, quite the contrary, but for years it felt like it had a purpose. They were beneath the law but not monsters, not blind killers, not sadists. 

Now...well. Arthur weren't feeling much nobler than an O'Driscoll, and that was a day he hoped he'd never see. 

He just didn't know what to think of it anymore. A few years back he'd have spit in the face of anyone who'd imply he'd turn his back on Dutch, knock their teeth down their gut for good measure. But things were different, and Arthur was damn tired of being the same man he always was, for better and for worse, while the world moved on without him. He didn't want to say goodbye to the only fathers he'd ever known, real fathers, the kind born from love and nurturing and not merely blood. He didn't want to give up their ragtag family, no matter how strange and transient the life was. He was born for running, it seemed, but the further they ran from the West the more wrong he felt. 

He would give his life for any of them, but there was less of that same conviction reflected back at him as the days went on. 

Maybe he should've gotten out when he had the chance. Now there wasn't much choice.

\---

Hosea was gone. Arthur wasn't a man for much outward emotion; he hadn't cried since he was a boy, not even when Mary wrote her last letter, ring nestled in the corner of the envelope, not even when his hands shook so badly that the recounting of the event in his journal was near illegible. He'd always held it deep inside him, like a secret, like some disjointed sin, but there was too much to withhold now and he sat on the deck of the ship with his hands over his face and felt wetness under his eyes. He couldn't stop seeing it, no matter how hard he tried, Hosea crumpling to the ground and gasping, agonizing, shot like a mad dog and watching the chance for peace die in his eyes. He felt Dutch's hand on his shoulder, and it hurt how familiar it was, looking up and seeing some of that warmth still there in his eyes, mixed with his grief. It was comforting, but only just - he'd lost one father, but he'd lost Dutch a long time ago, and he knew the warmth wouldn't last.

"I'm...sorry, son." 

Arthur wanted to believe him. It sounded more genuine than any apology had recently. He only grunted, running his hands up through his hair, brushing off both his pain and Dutch's response to it. 

"Can't change the past. Only move forward." 

Dutch nodded, quietly, and turned to leave.

It was only when he was alone that he could cry for John, too. That was a secret buried deeper than the others, more of a sin than the rest of his thoughts. Some part of Arthur selfishly wished that this meant it was over, that he'd never see Marston again and the last thing that was keeping him running and fighting would be extinguished. He could accept his fate if it were only him he had to worry about. Whether he lived or died, and the latter seemed much more likely, it wouldn't matter. No one still there to care about it.

Micah had been running his mouth about it, ever since they bolted from the bank, snuck across the docks, stole themselves a trip out of the country. All about how convenient it were that the Pinkertons knew where to find them, that John disappeared instead of having his brains blown out before their eyes. Arthur didn't believe a word of it; Dutch didn't say a thing to quiet Micah, and Bill was nodding along whipped into an easy fury by the concept. Loyal, but dumb. To every fault there was. Only Javier met his gaze with the same silent disbelief he was sure was easily readable on his face. 

John had left them for a year, and Arthur took a long time to even begin to forgive him for it, the betrayal cutting him deeper than he wanted to admit. But a deserter and a traitor were two different sorts of disloyalty. He would never have lured them into a trap, would've never risked their lives, let Hosea die for their sakes. Never.

But Micah was right about one thing: it sure were convenient. Real fucking convenient.

\---

Guarma was a blur, and Arthur had decided that the whole tropical paradise concept sounded more like hell than anything else. He missed the plains, the woods, the mountains, the world he understood and felt safe in, where life was hard and miserable but it actually felt like living. Not just...existing, which is all he seemed to do these days. He was running out of hope and will to fight, and maybe that was for the best. Weren't much hoping and fighting left to do.

Shady Belle was empty, predictably. He'd nearly been gunned down by the Pinkertons that came to find any stragglers, but his trigger finger wasn't as stiff and stuffed up as his brain felt. Sadie's letter folded in his pocket - he'll need a new satchel at some point - he made his way to their new hideout, where the precious few that still believed in anything at all were holed up praying for safety. And it was there that Sadie told him that John was still alive.

Part of him wished he'd never found out. A bigger part, one that just kept growing like a malignant ailment despite his best efforts to the contrary, wanted to sob with relief. Dutch showed no inkling of such emotion, waving off their concern with an airy "I have a plan, Arthur." And God knew he wanted to punch those words right out of his mouth. Real sick of that bullshit, that lie that made them lose and lose and lose. 

He knew Dutch would risk all their necks for his own pride, but he wouldn't risk his own for a man he once called his son. How things changed. 

They walked out of the cabin and Sadie opened her mouth, clearly ready to make her best efforts to persuade him. It wasn't needed. Arthur stowed his repeater in the holster on his saddle and mounted up. 

"Ride with me," he said, the words strange, too big for his mouth to hold. She switched the reins of her sooty buckskin and they tore into the night.

\---

Getting into the penitentiary was a fool's errand, and they took it up gladly. Riding alongside Sadie and her relentless faith, her strength that cowed every person he'd ever met in his life, it felt almost like old times. Almost...fun. As fun as getting shot at by a whole prison's worth of police could be, he supposed. His stomach still felt a little gnarled after that hot air balloon escapade, and after all that had happened in the past few months Arthur was more certain than ever that his feet belonged firmly on the ground. He'd never see the sky or the ocean the same way after. 

He walked up to the gate, gripping the sobbing guard by the neck with his pistol pressed to his temple. There were so many of them up there, and he knew he'd only have a split second of opportunity once he discarded this whimpering fool. As of late Arthur Morgan had thawed, making amends where he could with certain disaster looming on the horizon, but he felt younger and harder than ever as he stared up at the guards above the gate, the hostage's plaintive begging doing nothing to soften him. 

When they pushed John through the gate into Sadie's grasp, shooting the chain that shackled his ankles together, Arthur realized that maybe it was because he still had something to fight for. 

He flung the guard back towards the gate and ran. They ran to the boat and ran up the shore, to where the horses were waiting with impatiently stamping feet, casting whale eyes at the crack of gunfire on the wind. Dunnock turned his wide head to nuzzle Arthur's stirrup as he pulled himself up into the saddle. 

"Alright, boy," he murmured, patting the massive draft's neck. He looked down at John, clad in that loosely-fitting prison jumpsuit, and his heart was somewhere up in his throat. Just the thrill of the escape, he told himself. "Come on, Johnny boy. Ain't got much time." 

John swung himself behind Arthur onto Dunnock's back, and Arthur turned him towards the road, away from camp. Sadie saw it, gifted as her gaze and perception were, and announced, "I'll meet y'all back at camp, think it's best we split up." Arthur gave her a grateful nod as she spurred her mount in the opposite direction.

It was quiet for several hoofbeats, neither man knowing what to say to the other.

"Thanks," John said finally. His hands felt warm on Arthur's waist, the seat of his saddle too small to accommodate two without extra security. 

"Don't mention it," Arthur murmured. Three times now he'd saved John's hide, and every time he told himself it was just the way it was for them, sons of Dutch. But was it really, anymore? And was that all it had ever been? 

They weren't thoughts he liked entertaining, and that was maybe why he began so frankly, best to get the hard part over with. "Dutch didn't want us to get you out." 

That certainly gave John pause, the relieved sag of his frame stiffening. "What?" 

"Thinks it real lucky that you got out of that robbery safe." 

"Wouldn't call it safe!" John exclaimed, craning up like he was trying to meet Arthur's gaze over his shoulder. "Arthur, it wasn't like that, I-" 

"I know." It came out on a sigh. "I know it weren't you, John." 

There was another beat of silence, wound tighter than the first. Dunnock tossed his steely blue head and Arthur ran his fingers through the stallion's mane, rubbing at the topline of his neck in the way he liked best. All horses could scent emotion as keenly as any wolf or cougar, but Dunnock seemed just a bit better than the rest, reflecting his worry as he chomped at his bit. 

If only it didn't give him away. John shifted in the saddle, trying to get a bit more comfortable - no doubt the prison garb offered little protection. He'd be sore after, unsurprisingly. But it ran deeper than surface discomfort and he knew it would only be a matter of time before John finally said what was on his mind. 

Didn't take very long. "Why'd you save me, then? If Dutch said not to?" 

Arthur gritted his teeth. "You know why, Marston." They both knew. 

They made camp in the woods, far deep enough to avoid a happenstance encounter. John cast him a quizzical look, but Arthur only shrugged a shoulder, pulling his canteen out of his saddlebag. "Won't be no welcomin' party back at camp." 

He sat down in the grass, looking despondent. Arthur couldn't blame him - it hurt enough to know that Dutch didn't seem to care much about them, but hurt worse to have it proven. All those years just to die like dogs. What a damn waste. They'd given so much to the gang, their childhoods and their lives, and now that it was all going to shit they had nothing left within them. No confidence in the world and no experience to survive anywhere but Dutch's camp. It all looked so...dim.

They shared a cup of burnt coffee. There were a lot of thoughts battling out between his ears, so much he wanted to say but didn't know how to begin. What even deserved to be said now, and what needed to be buried forever more. Was it truly worth opening up old wounds? He'd sewn them up a long time ago, when John left them, left _him_. The selfish part of him wanted to ignore the ache. 

But John, as he often did, had no such qualms. "I can't go back," he began, shoving his unkempt hair back with a hand - Arthur still wondered why he never cut it. "I don't...well, I won't be walkin' back out, we both know that." 

"Sure." It was true. If Dutch didn't gun him down on sight, Micah would goad him into it soon enough. And it wouldn't be much better for Arthur, his blatant defiance would bring punishment. It stung. A few years back, Dutch would have praised him for courage even if he threw in a few chides for foolishness. 'My boys,' he'd say, 'thick as thieves, as always.' He could almost hear the laugh in his voice that had long since been replaced by madness. 

"And you..." 

"I'm going back, John," he responded shortly. "Gonna buy you a ticket somewhere pretty and then I'm going back." 

"You're joking." John sat up straight, fixing him with a gaze full of fury, almost enough to hide the fear that was flickering there. "Arthur, Dutch is gonna string you up for this, and after all that's happened-"

"I know, and I'll have to live with it, or die with it, whichever. Don't have much choice." 

"There's always a choice," was John's bitter reply. A moment of quiet, and "you told me to be loyal to what matters." 

Arthur didn't much like having his words thrown back at him, especially not by John, who'd never listened to a damn word he said, who infuriated him as much as he captured what little fondness Arthur had left to give. He put the canteen down forcefully. "And you're still here, dammit, John! Wouldn't have to defend your tender honor if you'd just left with Abigail, I told you for a reason." 

"I know. But...things is different now." John dropped his head, hair falling to mask his eyes, and Arthur ran his hand over his stubble with a sigh. 

"Ain't nothing different. You're the same fool you've always been." 

John laughed mirthlessly. "Sure am. A big fool for still lovin' you, as much as it's worth." 

"Don't say that." Arthur's words caught on his teeth. "Don't say that ever again." 

He stood and stormed over to his horse, searching through his bag for his bait, pulling his bow from the horn. As he slung his quiver over his shoulder he saw that John was standing too, staring him down balefully. 

"You're a goddamn coward, Arthur Morgan," he said. Arthur turned towards the trees and strode away.

\---

He came back with a rabbit, having spotted it picking nervously through the leaf litter. He half-expected to find the camp empty, leaving him stranded in the woods without his horse the right kind of pettiness for John. And maybe he deserved that. But Dunnock was still there, the campfire crackling and casting a soft glow across the grass. He stowed his hunting gear, offering the horse one of the still-ripe pears he'd pilfered from a house whose residents were off running errands a few days back. He'd need to find a better way to feed him as times got harder - maybe he'd look around for a fruit tree or a decent plant on the way back to camp. There was bound to be something somewhere. 

Thinking about that was easier than figuring out what to say to John. An evening by himself in the woods had brought him no closer to a conclusion on the matter, torn asunder by the two sides of his mind that coaxed him in different directions. On the one hand, he'd given Dutch his loyalty. More importantly, he'd given his loyalty to the gang, and he didn't want to watch the others go down; they had lost too many for him to feel that deserting was worth the death sentence on all of their heads. He'd live and die fighting for something, at least. 

But on the other...John. And all the things he'd told himself he would never deserve, that he wasn't ready to take the plunge on knowing that it'd only end poorly. It had been a mistake to answer Mary's letter and it would be a mistake to run away with John, as much as he was desperate for it. John had a family, and he...

More ghost than person.

Maybe he was a coward.

Arthur approached the fire; John was sitting with his back to him, whittling a piece of wood with a knife - his knife, undoubtedly nabbed from his supplies. He huffed. "Gimme that, less you don't want dinner tonight." 

John passed it over, surly, and he got to work butchering the catch. It was quiet, but not peacefully so, more like the silence when a thunderhead prowled on the horizon. Sooner or later there'd be hell raining down; and he could only wait for it, spearing bits of meat on a stick and setting it over the fire. The air began to fill with a pleasant aroma, and it wasn't Pearson's handiwork but it was close enough to feel less desolate. He still didn't know what to say.

"Know why I didn't leave with Abigail?" 

Arthur leaned back from the flame, resting his elbows on his knees. "No. Can't say I do." 

"She didn't want me to." John put whatever he'd been whittling on the ground, a mess of curves and sharp edges, aimlessly created and cast aside. Arthur looked at him in surprise, but his gaze was firmly fixed on the grass. "Don't blame her one bit for that. We're bad men, Arthur, all of us. And Jack..." he sighed. "I love that boy. Wanted to believe he weren't mine but it didn't matter in the end, I'd do anything for him. But she's right. He's got no chance bein' raised up this way." 

"John.." 

"She don't want him growing up like me, Arthur. And that's all he's gonna be so long as any of us are around. He can be...better. A good man. And Abigail can live like she deserves to, not runnin' from ghosts." 

Arthur wasn't sure if he believed that it was the right choice, but he couldn't fault Abigail for it either. He knew John could be more than he was, he had it in him, more than Arthur did himself. But he wasn't there yet, and Abigail did deserve better than waiting for things to improve. She'd waited long enough for that. 

"Maybe, well. You get out of here, get cleaned up, and then you can find her. Earn your family back." John was already shaking his head before Arthur finished speaking, and he sighed crossly. "Or you can just sit there moanin' about your lot in life, if that's what you want." 

"I want..." John trailed off, staring out into the fire. "You know what I want." 

He did. But it didn't change anything, it didn't change John leaving the first time and it wouldn't change now. "Some things, they just weren't meant to be." 

He reached out to gather the food from the fire, before it got all burnt up by their distraction. He could feel John's gaze boring a hole through the brim of his hat. 

"I don't believe that," he said. "And I don't think you believe it either. Don't pretend you never thought about it." 

"Not pretending." Arthur passed him a skewer, looking down at his own like he was trying to find his appetite. "But you don't get to waste your life dreaming, John. You get out, you do better, you've got a _future_. If not with your family then somewhere, something other than all of this. This thing's just about done." 

"Are you gonna waste your life for Dutch, then?" John said, clearly frustrated. "You do a whole lot of talking Arthur but I don't think you ever listen." 

He was probably right, and that only made Arthur angrier. He turned and snapped like a struck beast. "High talk comin' from you, Marston, the man with half a brain." And he should've stopped there, but John had kept prodding the wound and it was ready to bleed again. "You abandoned me. Abandoned _all of us_! And you come back acting like it never happened, telling all these tales about how we can run away together. You had your chance, but you left without me, John. It won't ever be like it was before." 

John was staring at him, shocked into silence. Arthur ran his hand over his face, frustrated by his lack of control. He felt tired, wrung out, run down. "I don't have it in me to hope anymore, and there's more lives than mine caught up in this mess." 

They didn't argue about it any more after that. They ate, or tried to, and Arthur rolled out his bedroll and didn't fuss when John laid down next to him. It was too cold for him to sleep on the ground, that was all. He pretended not to notice when John curled an arm around his middle, pressing close against his back; it was familiar, in that wonderful terrible way. It took everything in him not to curl their fingers together, a silent agreement that only the forest would see. 

"I've got to finish this business," he murmured, fire sputtering softly behind them. John pressed a little closer. 

"Come back after, then," was John's stubborn reply, half-muted by sleep. Arthur allowed himself a weary chuckle. 

"I'll think about it." 

He didn't know if he'd have the chance, and maybe that made it easier to acquiesce. They could have this moment, and whatever happened...maybe he could go out feeling less torn up inside. 

A dead man's promise died with him, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this first chapter is a bit messy, but i hope y'all like it! fun and terrible times ahead :)


	2. Now You Will Know The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I still have to go back,” Arthur said, buttoning up his shirt. He’d pulled his spare outfit from his horse for John, and it was all a little too big for the scrawny bastard and looked admittedly goofy, but it was better than prison garb. 
> 
> “I know.” John looked up at him, defiant. “I’m coming too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is some homophobia in this chapter, as a forewarning.

The evening-orange sun was just hovering over the horizon, like someone had cracked an egg above the trees. Coyotes barked and whined, weaving through the wheat-hued grasses, and the trails were mostly quiet, few travelers bothering with a night in the elements. Quiet but for two young men, hollering and gallivanting on the backs of stolen horses, rifles hoisted proudly and gunpowder sizzling on their fingertips. They tore across the fields aimlessly, carving racetracks out of the wilderness and testing the swiftness of their new mounts, leaving tracks more haphazard than the last until they finally tired themselves out and dropped to the ground at the edge of the treeline.

John’s face was lit up like a Christmas morning, taking the bottle of whiskey from Arthur’s hand and downing a hefty swig. “Looks like I picked the better horse, huh?” 

“Bull shit. You only ever win once you’ve gotten me liquored up, Marston.” 

“The boast of a sore loser,” John laughed, leaning back, raising up the bottle like it was the only thing keeping him stationary. Arthur snatched it back and John, reaching greedy hands to retrieve it, overbalanced and rolled onto his side with a tipsy snort. Arthur kicked at the heel of his boot. “Coming from a man that can’t hold his whiskey.” 

Why couldn’t it always be like this? In camp they were like bickering children, always at each other’s throats, needling the other’s sensitive spots until they exploded into curses and thrown punches. Hosea always knew when it was time to send them on their own job, when the atmosphere in camp was like a wooden barn in the path of a wildfire. And for a blessed little while, they could loosen up and be the parts of themselves that they kept locked away around the others. John, excited and playful, and Arthur, just a damn drunk fool. It was...nice. Didn’t mean much to admit that, did it? 

He took a swig from the bottle. It certainly meant much to admit to the other things they got up to, out here by themselves. Maybe he should regret it, but he never did, even if they didn’t speak of it once dawn broke once more. He didn’t regret it now, either, with the warmth of alcohol in his belly, John turning his head to meet his gaze with a look that did nothing but stoke that flame. 

John sat up, a little wobbly, and leaned forward to rest his cheek against his shoulder; Arthur wrapped an arm around his waist, bracing their weight on each other, and he could feel it when John’s drunken giggling subsided and a somber mood came over him, even if he couldn’t see his face. 

“Ever sometimes think we could just run away?” he said, and Arthur blinked, a little surprised but not by much. Hosea hadn’t sent them on this job for bickering with each other, after all - this time, the tension was not his own doing.

“No.” He did, sometimes, but it was a pipe dream. A fantasy. He would stand by his family until the day he stopped breathing, for better or for worse. 

“I do. Lot more lately than usual.” John grabbed for the whiskey bottle, and Arthur held it out of his reach, suddenly concerned that maybe it would be better not to loosen his tongue further. Still, John continued on, turning his nose into Arthur’s neck until his words were half-muffled. “She keeps sayin’ that boy’s mine, Arthur.” 

Arthur shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t currently occupied. He’d been a bit shocked to learn that John had lain with a woman, let alone fathered a son, but, well. Jack had that same face, and he knew it well, the same surly drop to his brows when he was feeling cross. And Abigail, she would never lie, especially not for something like that. 

It wasn’t like claiming her child was John’s was something anyone was scrambling to do.

“She wants us to be a family. And I can’t, I’m not a father, I’m no good for a kid. None of us are. How am I s’posed to raise a child, Arthur?” His voice pitched up a bit, a little hysterically. Arthur curled his fingers in the hair at the nape of John’s neck, sighing softly.

“I don’t know. But you’re gonna have to figure it out. Doesn’t matter how you got here, you’re here.” 

John nodded, but he continued on, shifting around against his side. “I don’t love her. Not...not like I should. She’s a good woman. Best woman I ever met and ever will. But I…” 

“Ain’t attracted to women?” Arthur goaded on a laugh, bold, not expecting a serious response. This conversation, it was a little too serious for their current level of sobriety in his opinion.

“Ain’t attracted to nobody but you.” 

Well, shit. So much for that.

“John,” he started, and it felt like he was both too drunk and not drunk enough for this, “we...I don’t know.” The younger man was already flinching, pulling away from him and keeping his gaze low.

“Don’t know what? Don’t try and tell me you don’t feel the same way.” 

“Shit, Marston, you know I do.” He pressed his forehead into his hand, bracing his elbow on his knee. “But that’s your son, you and I both know it. I’m not… you need to be there for your family.” 

“Can’t I do both?” John moved to straddle his knees, giving him that plaintive look, the one he could never say no to. “Or are you too scared to admit to it when you’re not stinkin’ drunk?”

God damn John Marston. Always read him like a fucking book.

“We,” and it was kinda hard to talk with John bearing down on him, right there, trying to seduce all the sense out of him, but it needed to be said. “We could try. Give it a shot, maybe.” And he’d be a damn fool to pretend he wasn’t scared about it, about what that’d mean for everything back at camp, but maybe he was a little sick of having to hide. Maybe he was ready to risk it.

John kissed him, eagerly.

The next morning he woke up alone, only one horse tied to the tree by where they’d made camp. He rode back on his stolen horse, but John wasn’t there, either, and Hosea’s clear confusion when he asked about it said it all.

Damn drunk fool. He should’ve known better.

\---

It was even colder than the night before. Winter was on the wind, Arthur could practically taste it, and the chill had chased them both further under the thin blanket they shared. He could hear John's teeth chattering in his sleep; he'd need something better and less conspicuous to wear, before he left. No chance of getting on a train wearing that. 

He turned over and looked at him, bracing his head on his hand. John looked so peaceful when he slept, ever-present scowl finally melting away, and damn if it didn't hurt in all the best ways to just see him like this again. All that time in Guarma and he thought he'd never get this chance, that John was dead and gone, but here he was. 

And Arthur was about to throw it all away again. He really was a fool, wasn't he?

They needed him. Sadie, Charles, Javier, they were certainly doomed now that Micah had a death grip on Dutch's last sputters of sensibility. He wouldn't feel _right_ just leaving them, even though running now would be the only guarantee that he'd survive it. It was his last penance, the last chance to make things right. He couldn't entertain his own selfishness in the wake of that knowledge. No matter where he ran, it would follow him like his own shadow, nipping at his heels with iron teeth and hungry wails. 

No matter how much he wanted to, he simply couldn't.

John stirred a bit, snuffling and shifting about, and it startled Arthur out of his thoughts, sitting up and moving to go stoke the fire and start the coffee; he'd just barely gotten his feet under him when John reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks. "Don't," John grunted, and he didn't have it in him to argue, sinking back into the blanket at his behest. 

"I'm sorry," was the first thing John said, and he flinched. 

"No. I'm...I shouldn't've said all that. Been a tough few months." 

"True, though, wasn't it?" 

Arthur sighed and leaned his head back, looking up at the pale blue and pink sky. John continued, staring at him, but he couldn't meet his gaze. "I know you never forgave me for running. And...well...guess you shouldn't, either." Arthur snorted, and John thumped him on the shoulder. "Shut up, you can call me an idiot later." 

"Oh, I will." 

"Yeah, yeah. But..." His voice softened, then, and Arthur met his gaze finally. Whatever he had to say, it seemed to be sticking in his throat. "When I left, it, I mean...it weren't like that, Arthur. I woulda gone to the ends of the earth with you, but it just. Caught up to me, I guess. You, and Abigail, and Jack...thought it would just be better if I were gone. Out of your hair." 

Arthur sat on that for a moment, his mind a total whirl. John's expression was remarkably doglike, a puppy begging for a scratch between the ears. It was his best and worst ability, knowing damn well when he turns on the sad eyes that Arthur can never resist.

"John Marston, you are an idiot," he said finally. John made an indignant sound, but it choked off in his throat when Arthur leaned forward, pressing their lips together. A little too aggressive and desperate to be really called a kiss, but close enough, John's hands coming up to clasp his jaw, tracing over the stubble. 

It had been too long. It felt like every fiber of him was singing, sparking, like static in the air. 

"Never want you out of my hair," he growled against John's mouth. "Else I'd've let the wolves eat all of your brain." 

"Bleeding-heart romantic, aren't you?" 

"Shut up." Arthur rolled over, pinning John to the bedroll. And for once, John listened.

Mostly.

\---

He'd intended to leave at dawn, but, well. That wasn't really how things went. It was midday by the time they could stand to separate from each other, starved of contact and desperate to make their time count. It was running out, and they both knew it. 

“I still have to go back,” Arthur said, buttoning up his shirt. He’d pulled his spare outfit from his horse for John, and it was all a little too big for the scrawny bastard and looked admittedly goofy, but it was better than prison garb. 

“I know.” John looked up at him, defiant. “I’m coming too.” 

“No.” Arthur pulled his boot on, stamping the ground. “I’m takin’ you into town and gettin’ you a train ticket.” And he could already hear the dissent brewing, and he couldn’t take it, knew he’d break down and surrender like he always did. But not this time. This was too important, and he wasn’t leading John to slaughter. “I’ll come back, after, meet up with you,” he continued, trying to soften the blow. He would if he could. He just didn’t think that he could.

John tossed his cigarette aside, brow dropped low over his eyes. “I’m not running again, Arthur,” he snapped.

“I -”

“Lover’s quarrel?” 

Arthur’s heart dropped straight to his belly, just like that. He reached for his holster but it was too late, looking over and straight down the barrel of a loaded gun, raising his hands in surrender. 

The smug look on Agent Milton’s face was disgusting. He was eying them both like they were vermin, a laugh playing on his lips; how long had he been there? What all had he seen? He supposed it didn’t matter; their state of undress, camped alone in the middle of the woods, it was pretty damn telling.

“A little friend told me you might be out here,” Agent Milton drawled, pacing by the fire like a mountain lion who’d finally cornered his prey. “A rescue mission, how absolutely _precious_.” 

“Shut up,” John growled, but the agents only snickered. Three of them, and Milton, not exactly an army though Arthur had no clue who might be waiting behind the trees. If that was all the fire they brought, they might have a fighting chance of getting out of this.

“I must say, I wonder what Van der Linde thinks of this. His favorite little henchmen, hiding out in the wilderness, up to unspeakable acts. But he knows, doesn’t he, Arthur Morgan?” Milton tipped his head, mockingly, and Arthur grit his teeth to keep from saying something stupid. A calm head and they would escape, he couldn’t afford to get riled up now. “Always thought the two of them were a little _queer_ , Dutch and Hosea. Half expected him to burst into tears when I put a bullet in his lover’s back.” 

And it hadn’t yet occurred to Arthur, through all of this, that maybe John hadn’t seen what became of Hosea. A wild rage lit up in his eyes and he shot to his feet, hair half fallen over his face, a maddened beast. Time seemed to slow, the next few seconds spanning hours, John lunging for Milton and Arthur lunging for John, knocking him aside just enough that the bullet whizzed past and hit the tree beyond him. And, well, that was their cue to go. They stumbled through the bushes and pressed their backs each to a tree, hearing the wood splinter, Arthur grateful that he’d already holstered his gun as he was getting dressed or they’d both be target fodder. He peered around the trunk and shot one of the agents in the head, satisfied to watch the blood spray, dirtying Milton’s always-pristine suit. 

“Where are you gonna run to?” Milton shouted over the gunfire, shielding himself behind a fallen log, angled where Arthur couldn’t quite get a straight shot at him. “Back to your friends? I think they’re more likely to hand you over, don’t you?” 

“They’d sooner blow your brains out,” John spat back. 

“Oh, would they?” Arthur couldn’t see the smirk but he could hear it, curling up the edge of his words. And it all fell into unsettling place. 

He swore under his breath and looked over to John, manic and half-dressed, looking like he wanted to tear out Milton’s throat with his teeth. He could relate. “We have to run. It’s Micah. It was always goddamn Micah.” 

“Shit.” John didn’t sound surprised, either. 

They fought their way through it, only one gun between them and now three agents left slavering for their blood. He didn’t see anyone else approach, which was a good sign, and the more he fired at the Pinkertons and the more breathing room he bought them, the more confident he was that they would succeed. The horses the agents rode in on were maybe a sprint away, if they could just stop the firefight long enough to get there. 

“Arthur,” John hissed, and when he looked over he was pointing up at the canopy. It didn’t take much to find what he was looking at. It was their lucky day, it seemed.

Arthur aimed and shot the beehive off the branch. It came down with a rather unimpressive thud, but the swarm that emerged was a lot more intimidating. He took immense satisfaction in the high shriek that came from Milton and his lot, scrambling like startled cats in a pitiful attempt to outrun their comeuppance. They didn’t wait for the Pinkertons to regain their sense, racing across to leap onto the back of a horse, Arthur digging in his spurs and whispering a quiet apology. It wasn’t the nag’s fault, after all, for its load, but between the spurs and the angry hum of the bees the horse didn’t need much coaxing to race off with its new cargo. 

For the second time in as many days he was running from certain death with Marston clinging to his back, and he’d never been happier.

They didn’t slow for a long time, until the forest turned to dry grass and they were sure they weren’t being pursued. When Arthur finally reined the horse in, slowing it down to a more manageable pace, he realized his shoulder was a little wet. Did he get shot? Did _John_ get shot? He turned his head to look, and he looked fine but his face was angry-red and swollen.

“You didn’t tell me they got Hosea.” 

Arthur swallowed, dropping his chin. “I’m sorry. Thought you saw, or...don’t know what I thought. Wasn’t thinking, I guess.” 

John laughed, humorless, wet with tears. “Guess there weren’t time for much thinking.” 

Arthur rested his hand on top of John’s where it clung to his midriff, John willingly sinking against his back. They kept on, unsure where to go from here, but they’d figure it out. They had to. 

It was Sadie that found them, and that wasn’t the least bit surprising. They were sitting on the steps of an abandoned shack, sharing a bottle of rum and a lifetime of memories. 

“Remember when we found that dead skunk on the trail, and we brought it back and stuffed it in Bill’s bedroll?” John said. Arthur chuckled, adjusting his hat. 

“Thought Miss Grimshaw was going to tan his hide right there,” he recalled. “Told him to go get in the river and not come back til he smelled like fresh-picked wildflowers.” 

They both laughed, leaning into each other. 

“Hosea weren’t even mad.” John reached up, flicking at the brim of Arthur’s hat, sending it off-kilter again. Arthur thumped him on the back. “What did he say, Arthur?” 

“‘Shoulda used a rat,’” Arthur said, and it ached him to recall it, as much as it soothed to dwell in fond memories. “‘He wouldn’t have found it for weeks.’”

Sadie cleared her throat and they both looked up, Arthur’s hand on his holster, still rattled by the Pinkerton debacle - but it was Sadie, of course, and she didn’t even blink at their defensive response. She made her way up the path to the shack, tossing them each a small square wrapped in paper. Arthur looked over his, picking at the wrapping with his thumbnail. 

It was chocolate. He raised a brow. “Where’d you steal this from?” 

“From a baby, o’course, where else?” She shot back, teasing. “Naw. Some kind lady gave ‘em to me, for helping her find her brother. Looks like y’all need it more than I do.” 

John had already devoured his piece, crinkling up the paper and tossing it aside. Arthur, unthinkingly, passed him his own, and he could see Sadie’s gaze drawn to the small gesture. Knowing. Hell, did everyone this side of the Grizzlies know? It felt uncomfortable, after pushing all of that down for so long, but there was no judgment in her eyes, and he knew there never would be. 

“Pinkertons caught up with us,” Arthur told her. 

“Figured as much.” Sadie sat on the bottom step, pulling out her knife, carving split points into pistol cartridges. “They turned up at camp last night. A terrible affair.” 

“Did anyone get hurt?” John’s brow was furrowed. 

“Javier.” 

“Did he-” 

 

“He’s gone, Arthur.” 

Arthur scrubbed his hands over his face; it felt like he needed a shave, but that was the last of his concerns now. “Hell.” 

“Sean, Hosea, now Javier?” John was staring at the stairs like he could burn a hole in the wood with his gaze alone. His shoulders were wound taut. “Guess Micah’s not stopping ‘til we’re all dead.” 

“Micah?” Sadie looked up at them, intrigued. 

“He’s the rat, Sadie. Milton told us.” Arthur took off his hat, letting the sun warm his hair for a moment; it was a little warmer out here, on the open grassland, than it had been in the forest. But not by much. “Milton’s word ain’t worth a bucket of horse piss, but.” 

“But it’s true.” Sadie’s lip curled. “Always knew he was a no-good piece of filth.” She stood up, then, stowing her knife in her bag, looking down at the two of them drowning their sorrows in liquor. She picked up the bottle of rum, took a swig, and tossed it away.

Arthur grunted, indignant. “I bought that,” he said. “For once.” 

“Well, you’re not gonna sit here babbling into your booze like you’re trying to be Reverend Swanson. So what’s the plan?” 

For once, Arthur didn’t know. “Who’s left?”

“Well, me, Bill, an’ Susan. Charles left, said he was going to help Rains Fall. Think Dutch saw straight through it, but at least he’s out.” She scuffed her boot against the dirt. “Dutch has gone mad. Everyone leavin’, Pinkertons closing in, he’s lost it.” 

“Sure.” That was no surprise. Frankly, Arthur thought he’d lost it a long time ago, but just when he thought Dutch couldn’t sink any lower he somehow did. There was no limit to that man’s mind, even crazed as he was. _Especially_ crazed as he was.

“Think it’s worth goin’ back now?” John asked him. Arthur turned his hat over in his hands, thinking. 

“Not yet.” And he knew that wasn’t the answer John wanted, felt him stiffen and stare him down angrily, but he didn’t look up. “But I figure, one way or another, Dutch is gonna find us.”

John’s reply was irritable, but grudging. “You’re prolly right.” 

There was a moment of quiet; Sadie seemed to realize that this was merely the tail end of a lengthy argument they’d already been having, letting them sit in silence for a bit before changing the subject. 

“Where’s your horse, Arthur?” She looked over at the black Thoroughbred hitched to the porch, lazily chewing grass. 

“Still in the woods, I reckon.” There wasn’t time to unhitch Dunnock in all the chaos, but knowing that brute, he’d snapped his reins and run after them. Still hadn’t caught up, though, and his heart was in his throat as much as he wouldn’t admit to it. He loved that horse.

“Well, that’s the start, then. We’re getting your horse back, and then we’ll decide what to do next.” 

“We?” John raised his gaze to hers, perplexed. 

Sadie only laughed. “What, you thought you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

Well, Arthur was glad for it. He put his hat back on, rising to his feet; his balance was a tad off, but he’d sober up quick on the ride. “That’s it, then. Let’s ride.” 

They mounted up, John and Arthur on the stolen horse, Sadie on her buckskin. Arthur gathered up the reins, looking over his shoulder. 

“Nice horse,” he said. “Wanna keep her after?” 

John grinned toothily. “Think I’ll name her Rachel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell i'm still fucked up over Hosea? because i'm still fucked up over Hosea.
> 
> bit longer chapter this time, and i'm hoping to keep it up over the next few. glad to see all the interest in my little AU! hope y'all liked this update :)


	3. And The Truth Will Set You Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever he got all into his emotions it ended poorly; he should've known better, but he seemed to keep making the same mistake. 
> 
> Maybe he was losing it too, he didn't know.

Arthur sat down by the fire. It’d been a week since John left, and he was trying, with everything he had in him, to pretend he was having an entirely normal response to it. Just frustrated that he’d abandon them, writing him off in his memories, nothing more and nothing less. He wasn’t _heartbroken_ \- you couldn’t break something that was never present to begin with, and Arthur Morgan was born without. 

Or so he told himself, repeatedly, fighting back the feeling of betrayal. 

“How did it go?” A gentle voice came from behind his shoulder. Hosea sat next to him on the log, bowl of stew balanced on his knees. The others had been avoiding him all week, unwilling to risk being lashed at while Arthur had so much anger banging around the inside of his ribs. Only Dutch and Hosea bothered trying to pull him out of it; he and Dutch had argued just the day before, and the feeling in the camp was near unbearable after. Hosea hadn’t said a word about Arthur shouting down his father figure, nearly swinging at him, only asked if he wanted to go on a job.

“Well enough,” he muttered. “Weren’t much in that farmhouse, but there were only a couple squatters still hanging about. Easy work.” 

“Good.” Hosea tapped his spoon against the edge of the bowl, a nervous unconscious habit that he never seemed to shake. For a breath they just sat there, Arthur staring moodily into the flame, waiting for the inevitable. 

“He’ll come back, Arthur. You know that.” 

Arthur scoffed, picking up a twig and tossing it into the middle of the fire, watching it crackle and split with a cathartic satisfaction. “Don’t want him to come back. He wants to go, he better stay gone.” 

He didn’t mean that.

“You don’t mean that.” 

“Sure I do.” 

Hosea shook his head, decided pretending he had an appetite was too much to bother with, setting his bowl aside. “Arthur, there’s nothing wrong with loving someone.” 

Arthur’s hands, folded on his lap, curled into fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Hosea just gave him a look. He growled under his breath, pulling the brim of his hat down low, like if he couldn’t see him he didn’t have to acknowledge it. He’d never despised Hosea’s ability to read everyone in camp more than he did in that moment.

“Hate the bastard’s guts. Frankly I’m glad he’s out of my hair.” 

“Are you, now?” Hosea was still looking at him, he could feel it, but he knew his face would give him away. Not that he didn’t already know. “So that’s why you’re prowling about like a caged lion, swiping at everyone who looks your way. Because you’re glad to have him gone.” 

“That’s right.” He wasn’t going to surrender, no matter how hard Hosea prodded him and turned his actions back on himself. 

“Hm. Alright, then.” Hosea tipped his head to one side, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper that looked like it’d seen better days. “Suppose you’ll want me to dispose of this, in that case.” 

Arthur snatched it from his hand, ignoring the smug look he got in response. Unfolding the scrap of paper, he peered down at the messy writing, familiar hand. He’d never forget it; after all, they’d learned to write together, Dutch showing them to transcribe passages from his favorite novels. John had ribbed him over and over again for his ‘fancy’ writing, but it looked like John’s had gotten better, too. Not by much.

  
( _Arthur-  
~~I didn't~~ ~~Maybe~~ Have some unfinished business. Look after ~~yo~~ Abigail and Jack for me. _

_Better this way.  
-John_) 

Arthur wanted to ball it up and throw it in the fire. He folded it and tucked it into his jacket pocket instead. 

“Son…” Hosea put a hand on his shoulder. Arthur looked at him finally, and he didn't know what expression he had on his face but Hosea's pinched in concern when he saw it. “Well, you know how he gets. He can’t handle problems he can't shoot down. He’ll get far enough to clear his head and he’ll be back. It…doesn't mean anything, Arthur.”

Arthur shrugged his hand away, standing with his fists clenched at his side. He felt...stupid. Damn stupid to admit to John what he'd been trying to ignore for so long, damn stupid to believe John ever meant a word he said while he had booze on his tongue. Angry at being duped, regardless of walking right into it. 

Hurt. 

“I hope you're wrong,” he managed, throat tight, “because if I ever see him again I'm putting a bullet in his head.” 

He walked back to his tent; Hosea lingered for a moment, fraught, before finally getting up and going to join Dutch at the table. He didn’t know what transpired the night before John fled, but whatever happened, it’d certainly torn Arthur up.

“Hurts my heart, seeing him moping around.” Dutch balanced his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, closing his book. “Gonna take him with me, on that stagecoach job Trelawny told us about. A little high-speed chasing always puts a pep in his step.” 

“Can't solve every problem with a robbery,” Hosea said, a flicker of fondness breaking the worry on his face.

Dutch winked at him. “Watch me.” 

\---

They rode back in the direction of the makeshift campsite they’d just abandoned; Arthur was pretty sure they didn’t need to go too deep into the thicket, already writing off his canteen and bedroll - it wasn’t worth risking a Pinkerton still lingering about in there, where it was harder to spot them coming. 

He whistled, straining his ears for the sound of hoofbeats. 

“You _sure_ he’s still here, Arthur?” Sadie sounded dubious. 

“Sure.” Dunnock was a smart creature, and it wasn’t their first shootout. He knew when to stay put - if he couldn’t find them, he wouldn’t have left.

It took a minute, but the massive draft emerged from the treeline; his leather lead was hanging loosely from his headstall, and he kicked up his hooves excitedly when he saw them. Arthur left John on the Thoroughbred and untied the dangling lead, mounting up with a huff of satisfaction. 

“You and your horses,” John laughed, shifting forward to sit properly in the mare’s saddle. Arthur shrugged - he always felt like he understood animals a little better than people, and if he and his horse had to rely on each other they might as well get to know each other, too.

Dunnock nickered, nuzzling his stirrup. 

“Well, what now?” Sadie asked, walking her horse in a slow circle; they’d worked up a bit of lather on the way up, the stallion still hot on his hooves. “Can’t just let Micah get away with what he’s done.” 

“No,” Arthur agreed. 

“Have y’all lost your minds?” John looked tense, glancing toward the treeline and away, like he expected an attack any moment. “We need to be running, we can worry about revenge later.” 

“If we give them time to regroup, they’ll be on our backs soon enough,” Arthur said. “Not just Micah and Dutch, but the Pinkertons too. And God knows what else.” 

“Not if we get ourselves good and lost.” 

“Don’t think we’ll have time for that.” Arthur was checking his saddle, making sure nothing had come loose while Dunnock was roaming the woods. “Dutch, he’ll...well, Micah is a bigger traitor’n any of us. If he’s got time to whisper in his ear, don’t know how that’ll go.” Dutch wouldn’t side with Micah knowing he was responsible for Hosea’s death. Would he?

Shit, he wished he could be certain in that knowledge. What a goddamn mess. “Way I see it, we haven’t got much choice.” 

John’s expression was stormy; Sadie looked vaguely uncomfortable, like she didn’t know if she should say anything. “You’re starting to sound an awful lot like Dutch, Arthur,” John gritted out. 

The words lit an angry fire in his stomach, but he kept his mouth shut before he said something he’d regret. John wasn’t going to get under his skin this time. 

Sadie spoke up finally, eyes flickering from one to the other; the tension in the air was thick enough to taste. “I think Arthur’s right. We know where they are now, but they’re not gonna stay for long. Ain’t no better chance than the one we’ve got.” 

John knew he wasn’t going to win this fight; he sighed, wheeling Rachel around and settling into his stirrups. “Fine. Let’s go get ourselves killed, then.” 

Arthur didn’t feel any less cross, but some part of him was pleased that John was still sticking around.

“For Hosea,” he uttered, and that seemed to ease John’s hackles a bit, light a flame of determination alongside his trepidation. Sadie nodded sharply. She hadn’t been with them near as long, but there wasn’t a single person who met that man that wasn’t a little fond of him. 

It wasn't revenge, it was justice, he told himself.

\---

They passed Beaver Hollow first, following Sadie toward where she said they'd fled after the Pinkertons. The tents were looted, half trampled, blood spattered in dark brown sprays on the dirt. Arthur had a knot of dread in his belly, certain he was going to see what he really didn't want to. But Javier was his friend, he needed a burial. 

He deserved that much. 

John seemed to be thinking the same. “He's not here,” he said.

Sadie looked confused, too. “They hadn't thought about goin’ back, far as I knew. Think the Pinkertons took him?” 

“Don't know.” Arthur couldn't see why they would want to, and he was more than a little disgusted that Dutch hadn't even mentioned burying him. Maybe they were thinking too badly of him, and he'd done it while Sadie was out. 

He didn't want to believe Dutch was that cold. “Let's keep moving.” They mounted back up, somber, and continued up the ridge. 

Arthur had stayed with John instead of going back to camp last night, consequence be damned. He wasn't there to help them fight the Pinkertons, he wasn't there to help Javier… He lost his head and it cost them dearly. John cast him a look, somewhere between guilt and plea, and he averted his eyes, focusing on the trail. Whenever he got all into his emotions it ended poorly; he should've known better, but he seemed to keep making the same mistake. 

Maybe he was losing it too, he didn't know. 

The terrain got increasingly difficult to traverse; at one point they had to leave the horses behind, advancing on foot and watching their steps. A rock slid under John's foot and tumbled down, end over end down the side of the mountain, and Arthur tried not to follow it with his eyes. 

They settled better when they reached flat ground. Sadie held out her arm to stop them, crouching low. “We're gettin’ close. John, might be best if you hung back a bit.” 

John huffed, but seemed to have gotten his head. “Yeah, probably.” He stayed crouched where he was as Sadie and Arthur headed along the path; there was no use hiding themselves, the echo off the rock would give them away. Arthur left his gun in its holster - Lord help him if he had to use it. 

He still had some hope that they could talk it out, but he was keenly aware of how narrow of a possibility it was. 

Micah saw them first, narrowing his eyes and leaning casually against the rock face. “Huh. So you came back, eh, cowpoke?” 

“Shut your mouth, Micah,” Arthur snarled; it took everything in him not to shoot him there, but it would end badly if they started it now. Micah just laughed. He could only hold their attention for a moment, Dutch emerging from behind him, out of shadow, the chains on his vest and rings on his fingers catching the harsh light. 

His expression was thunderous. As old as he got Arthur still felt small in the face of Dutch’s anger, but he held his ground. “Son,” he said, with none of the affection. “What are you doing back here?” 

“Had to finish this business.” Dutch was coming toward him, with slow predatory steps; it was the same body, the same face, but it felt like he was looking at a different person altogether. Someone that loved him that hated him now, that looked into his eyes and saw nothing but a threat. 

“Oh, how very kind of you! But I must ask, what _business_ do you think you’re finishing?” Dutch spat on the ground. “Because from where I’m standing, Arthur, it looks like you’re in the business of _betraying me._ ”

“There’s only one man here in the business of betraying you, Dutch.” 

“What are you talkin’ bout, cowpoke?” Micah was advancing too, the two of them trying to corner Arthur against the wall; Sadie was his only reprieve, stepping up to meet Micah with disgust and hatred on her face. 

“It’s Micah, Dutch.” Arthur kept his gaze on him, half-praying he’d listen, half-knowing he probably wouldn’t. “He’s behind all of it, the bank, everything. A good friend of the Pinkertons, according to Milton.” 

“Been talking to Milton, huh?” Micah sneered, “while they were trying to put holes in us? How convenient.” Arthur hissed under his breath - he couldn’t let Micah twist this around on him, but it was clear Micah’s words had captivated Dutch more than his. His grey eyes were like chips off a glacier, piercing through him; his hands were on his guns, seconds from ending them.

“You said it was convenient that the police were tipped off. Do you think John would’ve done that to us, let them kill Hosea?” 

His expression softened a bit, a crack in the maddened exterior; Arthur pressed on, desperate. “He was our father, Dutch. _You’re_ our father. We would never. You know it.” 

Dutch looked away, saying nothing. 

“We gave you all we had,” he pleaded. 

And he was sure, for a heartbeat, that he had him; the older man’s gaze had slid over to Micah, dawn breaking on his face, when Arthur heard Bill’s shout bounce off the wall. 

“Look who I found, Dutch!” He turned to look; Bill was pushing John ahead of him, hands raised in surrender, rifle pressed to his back. “Sneaking around back -” he stopped short, looking surprised to see Arthur. 

_Fucking Bill,_ he thought. He knew exactly what this was going to look like, and sure enough, Dutch was turning on him again, lip curled into a snarl. “First you have a chat with the Pinkertons, and now you’re here to ambush me?” 

“Dutch-” John started. Bill hit him between the shoulder blades with the butt of the rifle, sending him down to his knees with a grunt. 

“That’s not what we’re here for, Dutch,” Arthur tried, but there was no shaking him now. In a breath they all had their guns drawn, a close-quarters standoff with the mountain ridge on one side and a dizzying drop on the other. 

“It’s the end of the line, boys,” Dutch drawled. “We have no room for traitors, here.” Arthur felt sick to his stomach. Was he really going to have to shoot him? He didn’t see another way out at this point, but he didn’t know if he could, his finger stiff and still on the trigger. 

“Kill these fools!” Micah egged him on, an endlessly smug grin on his face, like a cat who’d found the milk pail. “Before their agent friends show up!” 

Bill cocked his gun. 

The first shot was fired, not by any one of them, but another at the top of the ridge; Micah yowled, the gun blown straight out of his hand and hand blown besides. At once they scattered, divided straight down the line of loyalty, crouched behind whatever cover they could find. 

“You left me behind!” Arthur looked up, and it was Javier, looking pale and blood-spattered but entirely alive. He had to restrain the noise of relief that clawed up his throat. Now Dutch was on the defensive, back pressed to the ridgeside, where a shallow scoop shielded him from any fire. 

“We were coming back for you, Javier,” he said. There was a change in his tone, trying to sound kind and wise and apologetic, but it was a farce now and everyone knew it. “I had a plan.” 

“Like hell you did!” Javier fired again, hitting the rock just in front of Dutch’s face. Micah was still whimpering, crazed titters peppered throughout, cradling his ruined hand to his chest. No one had a good shot at each other, stalling, waiting for a window of opportunity. Bill shot off a round at the rock shielding Arthur and Sadie, cursing in frustration when he missed.

“Think for yourself, Bill,” Arthur shouted, and got another bullet whizzing his way for his effort.

Sadie whispered, “what now?” 

His head was so full of noise he hadn’t a clue. “Try and make it out alive.” No idea how to do that, exactly, but they’d had half-decent luck surviving so far. He didn’t want to believe this is where it would end. 

“We can make a deal, Dutch,” he said, louder. “No one needs to die here.” 

“You’ve gone soft, cowpoke,” Micah spat. 

“I’m not asking you, Micah.” Arthur hadn’t any patience for him before now, but it certainly wasn’t any better in the moment. “Dutch, you know how this is gonna end and none of us want that. We didn’t come here to fight, but we’ll fight.” 

“They blew off my hand, Dutch!” 

“I’ll blow off more than that,” Javier threatened. 

“Quiet!” Dutch bellowed. He stepped around from the rock; his guns were holstered, hands raised. “You’re right, son. No need to shed more blood than we have. We are not savages.” 

Arthur rose to his feet slowly. John shot him an incredulous look, but he ignored it. “We didn’t betray you. You know who did.” He approached Dutch, tentative, but secure in knowing Javier was covering him. “All them years, Dutch, for that _rat_?”

Dutch’s gaze flicked up towards the ridge, then back to Arthur’s. His face gentled. 

“Son, you know I want to believe you.” 

“Then believe me.” 

Dutch sighed, looking to the ground. His hand came up as if to pat Arthur on the shoulder. 

“I want to, but I just don’t.” 

Dutch shoved his knuckles into Arthur’s chest, throwing him off balance; he barely saw him retreating, swiftly, practiced on the uneven terrain, as he wobbled on his heels. He stepped back to right himself, and his stomach dropped when he felt his boot slide right off the edge. 

_No,_ was his last thought, cloud-packed sky filling his vision as he plummeted, a clamor of shouting and gunfire jerking up and away from him.

His head slammed against something hard and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY
> 
> but hey, Javier's still alive! that's good, right? ~~pleaseforgiveme~~


	4. Blessed Are The Peacemakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just…” He stalled for a moment, scowling. “Wish I could _do_ something. ‘Sides sit here and wait, for…” Well. Either a great thing or a terrible thing, and one was looking more likely than the other. John shrugged, dejected. “I don’t know. Don’t even want to say it.”

“ _Arthur!_ ” Three voices rose in united horror.

Dutch melded into the shadow under the ridge, devoid of any expression but determination; it worked - for a breath they were all focused on the cliff, and it was enough for him to slip out of sight, Micah and Bill quick to follow. He didn’t look back. 

It was lucky that they weren’t interested in fighting further; John lunged into the open for Arthur, far too late to catch him but ripping free from Sadie’s grip anyway. She was frozen in place for a moment, torn between following John down the slope and making sure they shouldn't be expecting a second attack. Javier's voice bounced down to her, leaning over the edge to meet her gaze. “Where’d they go?” And, yeah, that was...probably the most urgent concern, considering…

God, she didn’t really want to think about it. Just beyond the outcrop that had shielded Dutch from their weapons was a split in the rock, maybe a shoulders-breadth wide. “There’s a shaft over here, they must have escaped into the caves.” She wasn’t particularly keen on going in there, with three armed madmen on the other end - if they wanted to run, let them. _They’d better run._

“I’m going to find Charles,” Javier said; Sadie was already back at the edge, easing herself down feet-first to follow John. She glanced up briefly, perplexed. “Charles?”

“He found me first- he’s back down that way,” but she wasn’t looking to see which direction he gestured in, and admittedly he wasn’t that invested himself as he scanned for a familiar shape on the slope. “We’ll find a way to come from below!” And he disappeared from view.

John was half-running, half-sliding beyond her, pulling himself by his hands when his missteps unbalanced him; they were already so far down that she was swiftly losing hope in what they would find, but she didn’t dare say it. Her boot slipped on the rock underfoot and Sadie had to throw out her arms to stop from cracking her own skull. It was blood, a wide curved smear from one band of stone to another, wet and refracting sunlight. “Shit…”

John made a mangled noise, kneeling down, and she scrambled to her feet after him. 

He looked...small, with John crouched over him, fingers framing his cheeks. Tucked in the lip of a sharp outcrop, like he’d just laid down for a nap but for the strange angle of his arm under his head; blood streaked wheat-blond hair and windburned skin, welling in a thick, slow rivulet from a deep cut at his temple and Sadie ripped off her bandanna and pressed it against the wound, a small, helpless gesture in the face of all that was broken. 

“Arthur…” John was shaking so badly he barely managed to get the word out, bending til their heads were level. She felt like she was witnessing something she shouldn’t see, looking away as his lips brushed over Arthur’s brow. “Goddamn stubborn bastard, I told you...” 

Sadie put her hand on his shoulder, straining her ears for Charles and Javier. “John...” She didn’t know what to say, really. Her breath was sticking in her throat. 

Hooves clattered with hollow echoes; the two emerged some thirty feet below them, dismounting and making their way carefully up the ridge, and Sadie got up to meet them halfway. John deserved a moment of privacy, at least, without all of them hovering. 

“It’s bad,” she said, even though it was already clear. The silence, only broken by John’s faint noises that would be words if she were close enough to hear them, was a void she was desperate to fill. “He...well. You can tell.” 

They all lowered their heads, huddled together with their backs to the wind. 

“Thought you were a goner, Javier,” Sadie said, and he chuckled weakly. 

“Thought I was, too.” He turned to look up at the cliff, and seeing it from down here really put it into perspective, the cruel end Dutch intended. “Can’t believe Micah was the one behind all of this.” 

“I can,” Charles said, shifting his coat a little tighter round his shoulders in an attempt to deflect the cold. “We have to...” He gestured in the direction of John. “The wolves will smell it soon enough.” None of them wanted to interrupt or really see the worst bit of it, but Charles was right, and they couldn’t linger here forever. Sadie sighed through her nose and led the way back up. 

John was slouched over, head leaning against the rock, staring mindlessly at Arthur. Javier approached and crouched beside him. “Hey, brother, good to see you again,” he said in a soft voice, arm around his shoulder; John didn’t respond, but leaned into him regardless, chin dropping to his chest.

Sadie left him to it for the moment. Charles was looking down where Arthur lay, rubbing his hand over his face. “Dutch,” was all he said, and there was more anger in that one word than she’d ever heard from him before. She growled her agreement. Micah may have been the traitor, but it was Dutch who did _this_ \- as well as they knew Dutch had given up all sense of loyalty to those he demanded faith from, none of them were really expecting that to be the end. Least of all Arthur, she supposed. “Help me,” she said, working her arm under Arthur’s shoulders to try and pull him into a sitting position.

A noise, hardly better than a death rattle, clawed out of Arthur’s mouth. He raised an arm in a pitifully small, jerky motion, like he was trying to ward them off; Sadie nearly dropped him out of sheer surprise but caught herself before she let him fall against the rocks again. “Shit, shit, Charles-” 

The revelation brought a cacophony of noise; John twisted away from Javier, caught again just short of throwing himself onto Arthur. “Let me _go_ ,” he spat, squirming and bristling like a captured barncat, but Javier held firm. “Easy, John, easy, let him breathe…” Sadie braced Arthur’s head on her knees, trying to keep him still. Charles was looking him over, and when he looked up to meet her eyes her utter amazement was reflected in his own. 

He shouldn’t still be alive, looking like that. Not that she was complaining. 

“We can’t move him now, don’t know what all’s hurt on him.” Charles rummaged in his satchel, coming up with a small vial of tonic, popping the stopper and pressing it to Arthur’s lips. Sadie rubbed his throat; a good bit dribbled from the corner of his mouth, but it was the best they could do. “We’ll have to protect him from here.” 

“Well, I’ve camped in worse places,” Sadie responded, a little breathless with relief. “Let’s get to it.” The energy of the group had changed on a dime, hopelessness sliding away for favor of resolve; Javier released John once he was calm enough, following Sadie down to fetch whatever they could from the horses. Charles’s bedroll served as a makeshift shelter from the wind, Javier’s sheets and all of their spare clothes swathing whatever part of Arthur they could without shifting him around. Sadie went looking for wood, grateful for the terrain only for its lack of burnable undergrowth; they didn’t have the luxury of picking a nicer place to start a fire. In the end it was a tight fit on the outcrop Arthur came to rest on, enough for one person to sit alongside while the others camped below. 

Far from comfortable, or easily defensible, forcing them to spread a little wider than they would like. Not a soul had a complaint about it. They were alive, if only just, and they were together.

\---

“John?” 

He jolted awake, neck muscles cramping in protest; rocks didn’t make very good pillows, but he hadn’t been sleeping much regardless. Any more would be impossible, between the cold and the close quarters and the sounds of wolves off in the distance, sitting guard between Arthur and the elements. “What,” he said, rubbing the grit from his eyes. 

Javier passed him a tin cup, a small ration of burnt coffee swirling at the bottom. It was the finest thing John had ever tasted. The other man settled himself just outside the makeshift tent, bracing his boots against a small crag and regarding John with a playfully critical glint. “You look awful, scarface.”

He scoffed, cradling the empty cup and letting the still-warm metal ease the stiffness of his hands. “Where are the others?”

“Charles is in Van Horn, gonna try and get some supplies.” Javier adjusted his poncho, a brief glance of bullet-torn shirt as he folded his arms beneath it. “And Sadie’s hunting, so you’re stuck with me.” 

“Think that’s the first time I’ve ever been glad to hear those words,” John said. He wasn’t sure if it was good that he was able to joke right now, however weak and formulaic, a strange guilt clinging to his ribs. 

Javier flashed him a reassuring smile. “Feeling’s mutual, brother.” 

They sat in a companionable quiet for a minute, John more grateful for the company than he realized. No matter where he looked or what he forced himself to think about, it kept coming back to the other side of the hogan; Arthur hadn’t stirred since that first time a day ago, and all he could do was wipe the sweat from his face and watch, helplessly, praying to whatever might exist that he wouldn’t lose him. 

Charles didn’t think he’d gotten any worse, but he hadn’t said he’d gotten any better, either.

“What happened? Back at Beaver Hollow?” John asked, shoving the thoughts to the back of his mind for now. Between that and...everything else, there hadn’t been much time to catch up. 

“Pinkertons blew in around midnight. Woke us up with the usual, ‘hand over Dutch and we’ll let you free’ deal. Now I’m thinking it was a good offer after all.” He snorted, clear disgust in his tone - it wasn’t that it was surprising for Javier to have a change of heart, but he’d never heard him talk badly of the man before now. A disorienting reminder of how much had changed in so little time. “They got me, but it was just a graze. And it occurred to me that maybe I could pull a fast one on them, teach them to fear the name Javier Escuella.” 

John blinked at him. Javier snickered, dropping the theatrical tone of voice. “Well, they shot me and I knocked my head on the side of the wagon, but my way of telling it sounds _much_ better.” 

That got an actual laugh out of him. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He put down the cup, leaning back carefully against the rock. “Well...it’s...good to have you back. Wouldn’t be the same without you.” It was hard to figure out the words, falling terribly short of his feelings, and from Javier’s amused glance that fact didn’t escape notice. 

“A compliment, from John Marston?” Javier beamed at him. “I’m flattered.” 

“Don’t get too high and mighty on yourself, now.” 

It didn’t take long for his gaze and thoughts to slide away again, though, grazing over the lump of donated fabric that had been playing an oblivious third party to their conversation. He couldn’t even hear Arthur’s breathing like this, with the wind playing over the canvas wall; he was afraid to sit closer than he already was, in case he bumped him, or hurt him, or something...he looked like he’d been broken apart as it were. “Think there’s a doctor in Van Horn?” 

“If there is, Charles’ll find them.”

That wasn’t a satisfying answer. It was for the question he asked, but figuring out how to ask for what he really needed wasn’t exactly his finest skill, and it did nothing to ease the discomfort inside him. 

“I just…” He stalled for a moment, scowling. “Wish I could _do_ something. ‘Sides sit here and wait, for…” Well. Either a great thing or a terrible thing, and one was looking more likely than the other. John shrugged, dejected. “I don’t know. Don’t even want to say it.” 

Javier was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his own words; when he finally spoke it was gentler, like the day before. “Can’t predict fate, John. Wish I could lie about that, but I don’t think even you would believe it.” John made a noise, fussed but not truly offended. “Still, Arthur’s got experience laughin’ in the face of death. He survived Colm O’Driscoll, and Guarma, and he’s already putting up a fight. Just don’t see him letting Dutch have the last laugh.” 

Guarma. Arthur had told him a little bit of it, before the Pinkertons showed up, what felt like lifetimes ago already. It prompted another thought, reminding him blithely that all they did since was quarrel. _I told him he sounded like Dutch. Hell._

If he pulled through this, John had a lot of things to say to Arthur. He just needed to figure out how to say it. “I hope you’re right,” he responded, trying not to sound too down and out - it was only the situation, and not what he’d said. That was...actually quite kind. He didn’t know what to do with that. 

“He’ll make it, brother. Give him a few days and he’ll be ordering us around in no time.” 

\---

He wasn’t entirely right, but by the fourth day scraping by on the mountain Arthur’s fever started to break. John was afraid to hope for much, lest things turn south, but he was starting to feel less like it was an inevitability. The camaraderie helped a great deal. He seldom wanted to leave the hogan but sometimes they could coax him out into the sun for a bit, and as much as he protested he kind of enjoyed it, even if he’d rather be inside waiting. 

Sitting and waiting was admittedly useless on his part. But everything else felt off, reminding him in that unique absence of what he was waiting for. 

At midday Charles broached the idea of moving camp.

“Are you sure?” Was John’s first question, lingering where the horses were tied; Sadie had retrieved their mounts, and he was hovering over Dunnock, idly rubbing at the stallion’s roached mane. He wasn’t a good horseman by any extent, or much of a horseman at all, but he thought maybe he looked a little down. “I mean...will he…?”

“Arthur’s stable, for now.” Charles untied a bundle from the cantle of his saddle, setting it on the ground. “And we’ll have to be careful. But he needs to be somewhere less exposed.” 

Sadie slid off her horse, coming up alongside John. “We found a doctor that might be able to make a house call,” she said, “and might be willing to take a few extra dollars to keep his mouth shut.” 

“How do we move him? Can’t exactly put him on the back of a horse,” John responded, a little more harshly than he intended it to sound; his face tightened a bit and he looked away. “Sorry. Just, worried, I guess.” 

Charles passed him the bundle; it felt like fabric, mostly, not as much weight as bulk to it. “We’re not going to take any risks. Javier and I are gonna try to find a wagon or something for most of it.” His gaze was sympathetic, and it was kind of them to care but it was starting to wear on him, all of them regarding him with something like pity. 

“He’s gonna need cleaning up,” Charles said, gesturing to the bundle, and he went from burning with irritation to embarrassment real quick. 

“Yeah.” He made his way back up to the hogan, eyes fixed only on the rocks in front of him and nothing more. 

Arthur looked a lot better, at least. He still hadn’t moved much, but his face looked less taut and pale, more like he might just be resting. John kneeled next to him hesitantly, unrolling what Charles gave him. There were cloths, bandages, a flask of water, ointment… “Jesus,” he said, unsure where really to begin. There wasn’t a first aid course in the Van der Linde finishing school, but he wasn’t about to ask for help.

“How hard can it be?” he mumbled to himself, just to fill the silence. He wet a cloth first, feeling like that was a pretty decent start, tracing it across Arthur’s forehead. 

He got into a relaxed, if somewhat awkward rhythm, wiping away any blood and dirt, replacing old bandages with new ones. It was surprisingly calming, more productive than he’d felt the past few days just lingering and hoping a foot or so away, and it was just nice to touch him again even under such dire circumstances. They exchanged so little physical affection when they weren’t, well, being physical, and John wasn’t sure if it could be classed as such, but it felt intimate regardless.

He pressed a fresh bandage to the nasty-looking gash on Arthur’s temple, and Arthur turned his head away with a weak noise. He pulled his hands back, reeling; he’d been so in his thoughts, not that he’d been expecting it anyway, and for a moment he was dumbstruck.

His eyes were open, just thin slits that hazed with fever and held no recognition, but he looked more alive than he had in days. “Water..” It was guttural, almost indecipherable. 

John unscrewed the flask, shifting over to press it to Arthur’s cracked lips. He drank desperately, draining what was left of it, and moved as if to sit up. “Shit- just stay put, Arthur,” he said, resting a hand on his chest, not sure where to touch that wouldn’t hurt. 

Arthur blinked, turning his head a bit to look at him, sort of, if he even could through the fever. “John?” 

“Yeah.” He could hear the relief in his own voice, leaning as close as he dared. “Yeah, it’s me.” 

“Feels like I got hit by a train…” He had to fight for every word, like it took all he had to say them. “What happened…?” And there was no way to explain everything to Arthur then, especially when his eyes were already flickering, seconds from falling shut again. 

“You’re gonna be fine.” John touched the bandage again, realizing belatedly that it hadn’t adhered; this time, Arthur leaned into him, letting out a rattly sigh. “That’s all that matters.” 

It was the first time he’d said it so far, first time he truly believed it, and somehow that was just as terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the gang's all here 😭


	5. Preaching Forgiveness as He Went

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus,” he murmured, dropping onto the back stoop, head in his hands. He really was a jackass.

They made it safely despite John’s misgivings, onto the wagon Javier procured, traveling as quickly as they could towards the homestead John and Arthur had found that previous week without drawing attention to themselves. Arthur didn’t stir much, wan-faced and tense the entire way, and one couldn’t blame him. They could only go so slow, and the road was only so smooth. John sat in the wagon bed and stared up at the swiftly dimming sky, awkwardly full of his thoughts with nothing but silence around him. 

He didn’t know what to do now that they were here. He hadn’t really thought that far. By all accounts they should all be dead, every one of them, but somehow they’d cheated fate and they didn’t know where to go from there when no one had planned for success. Where could they run to? He wanted to think Arthur wasn’t just placating him, that he did want them to disappear together - but it didn’t sit right. He knew he hadn’t yet made it up to him, running when staying mattered the most. He knew Arthur hadn’t truly forgotten. 

That was fair, admittedly. John wanted to think that what’s done was done, but it never worked out that way in practice. It was one of those things, that he should already understand but was still slow on the uptake, meandering awkwardly through the consequences of his actions and never seeming to predict a single one. 

The doctor - Morrigan, he’d called himself, gaze sweeping over and past John like he was no more than a stain on the rug as he removed his hat and coat - seemed cautiously optimistic. He exchanged hushed words with Charles, half-illuminated by firelight, the rest of them kicking their heels at the stoop like petulant children. John had a lot of questions, but none of them cobbled together with enough sense to offer a distraction worthy of a doctor, so he just waited on the heels of his palms and hoped that it was...okay, to just linger like this. He’d been asking himself that a lot lately, a question he hadn’t considered before but probably should have. Action or inaction, it seemed arbitrary when fate did with them what it would. 

But maybe he was wrong about that. After all, Arthur was still breathing.

He helped Charles bring in firewood from a shambled pile out back; the wood was old and dry, but not as old as one would expect, looking upon the barren homestead. Whoever had been here before had stocked their lean-to as late as spring, and that set a wriggling anxiety inside of him, but there was nothing they could do until Arthur was well enough to travel again. They could only hope its previous inhabitants did not plan to winter here, or if they did, that the firepower they brought was minimal.

Arms full of wood that felt parched enough to set alight just from the friction of his step, John looked at Charles. “What’d he say? The doctor, I mean.” 

A look passed across Charles’s face that he didn’t like, as though Charles knew something that he at the last moment chose not to disclose. “Surprised he survived, just like the rest of us. His arm’s broken, and some ribs most likely, but bones can heal.” 

John wanted to ask what it was that made his friend’s face fold, swiftly concealed like a parcel wrapped in paper, but if Charles didn’t say it willingly he never would. “I hope we don’t get any unwanted company.” It made his skin itch to be out so boldly under the moon, the closest trees crouching in a furred line on the horizon, nothing but grazing-land in every direction. There was nowhere from which to defend beyond the house and its rotting, brittle siding. 

Charles hummed his agreement. “At least if someone does turn up, we’ll see ‘em coming.” 

They stepped over the threshold. The cabin was small and likely looked shabby even when first built, two rooms, the main living-room in which the fireplace and the stove lay, and an offshot room not much bigger than a tent. In that room the doctor pored over Arthur, and lamplight reached out under the closed door and laid itself in repose across the floor. Javier and Sadie were bustling about, unpacking supplies, raiding the little cabinets in hopes of food. John arranged his wood in the fireplace and Charles lit a match, and after some tending the main room’s light was warm and merry and crackling in the corner.

John crouched in front of the hearth, warming his stiff fingers. The others made do with a can of salted offal split between them, but John refused when it was offered to him. After a week on the mountain even that seemed a fine delicacy, but his belly felt hollow and knotted up, and he knew it wouldn’t sit well.

It felt as though they’d been sitting around for hours, the others making small talk and John staring moodily into the flames, when the door at last opened and the doctor emerged. In the light his features were much clearer to John: he was ochre-skinned, long and thin but unexpectedly short, wearing a close-cropped black beard and hair that was combed back with pomade. The hair at his temples and the dimple of his chin were already silvery. He turned his head to meet John’s gaze, and a wide white scar carved a valley across his cheekbone, deep and clean and precise. His eyes were strangely pale. “I’ve bound his wounds,” Dr. Morrigan said in a hoarse, reedy voice, “and given him something for the pain and infection.” 

“Will he be alright?” John asked. 

“Only time will tell how well he will heal, if he does,” the doctor said, and while the sharpness of the answer stung at least it came out honest. “But if the infection doesn’t take him, he will live.” 

John nodded, relieved to break Morrigan’s gaze. Something about the man unsettled him, but he couldn’t place exactly why. Maybe it was his harsh manner, or maybe it was the situation, relying on the prowess of a stranger to keep his friend alive. To keep his…

What _was_ Arthur to him, and he to Arthur? He knew what _he_ wanted, and he knew it was more than he could lay claim to. And Arthur…God only knew what he wanted. It wasn’t the best time to ask.

The doctor donned his hat and coat, swathed in deep browns and blacks, like a shadow come calling. “He’s awake for now, though it would be best to ensure he rests as much as possible. I must take my leave. If anything goes awry, you know where to find me. If not, I shall return in a week.” He nodded to Sadie and to Charles, and turning on his heel he was gone through the door with only the whisper of his duster bidding farewell.

John sat there a moment, torn. When he looked up from his hands they were all looking at him.

“Uh,” he sounded, bewildered. Sadie rolled her eyes. “G’on, stop moping and go talk to him. You’re makin’ for sour company.” 

He wasn’t ready yet, and maybe also a little _too_ ready, but with their acknowledgement he could sit on it no longer either way. He stood and walked to the door, rapping lightly on the rough wood. “It’s John.” 

“Alright,” Arthur’s voice bled through the wood, his drawl pulled deep and tired, almost slurring. John let himself in, shutting the door softly behind him, eyes adjusting to the room.

Arthur sat in the darkest corner on a makeshift pallet of clothing and scrap fabric, illuminated only by the single lantern, dancing haphazardly across his face; John came closer, all his thoughts bound up at his throat. 

“You okay?” 

“More or less.” He at least looked better than he had on the wagon down here, breaks bound with actual precision at last, looking a bit relieved by that alone. Whatever pain relief he’d been given had loosened the knit between his brows, and though he still looked raggled and sore he nonetheless looked the most like himself. He unfolded his arm, the one that wasn't wedged in a sling against his chest, drinking from a flask and waggling it enticingly at John. He didn't need asking twice.

He had a lot to say, and in the past week he still hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. To be expected.

“We, uh.” Arthur was looking straight at him, stopping his words dead in his throat for a heartbeat - half-lit by the lantern it was hard to tell if the warmth in his lakewater eyes was inviting or merely a wildfire beginning to smolder. “Guess we need to find new career paths, huh.” 

Arthur snorted, expression doing little to shift. “Guess so.” He leaned forward into the flask, and John was struck by how immeasurably tired he looked, bruises nestled in the hollows of his eyes and shadows clinging steadfast to the lines on his brow. “Thought of a plan?” 

He knew what Arthur was actually asking him, for once. He pulled at the rolled sleeve of his shirt - Arthur’s shirt, a little too loose to be comfortable - and set his jaw. “Sorta. Imagine I’m going wherever you are.” He had no right whatsoever to assert that, but sometimes when he did Arthur would surrender rather than arguing it. 

No such luck today. “John,” Arthur began, already sounding harried. He pulled up his shoulders in a preemptively defensive gesture. “I know you’re just tryin’ to avoid your responsibilities.” 

He resented the very notion, alongside the sting that came from being reminded of his own shattered family. It wasn't out of cowardice that he wanted to be close to Arthur, he just wanted to, he wanted _Arthur_. But he couldn't say it again, not when he wasn't sure how it would be received, not when he was already feeling out of sorts and exposed. “I told you, Abigail don’t want me around no more. And she’s right for wantin’ it.” He spread out his hands in surrender, staring at the floor. “What more do you want from me?” 

It was a wildfire, after all. Arthur’s stare could have combusted ice, burning straight through him; he drew himself up to sit straight on the cloth heap, and in such a small movement his anger towered over the room. “I want you to be a goddamn man for once in your life, John Marston.” Every word was punctuated with contempt and bit like a bullet. “You’ll be repenting for all that’s gone on with that woman for the rest of your days, but even if she never spits in your direction again that boy is still here and needin’ a father.” 

Arthur coughed, painfully, and John leaned forward with hands already outstretched, guilt pressing his temples; he waved him off. “He’s here because of you, you don’t get to just abandon him.” 

Shame bound his ribs taut and suppressed any word. He’d never heard Arthur so angry, so fed up, not even when he’d turned up at camp again all those years ago and Arthur had been staunchly advocating a capital punishment for his betrayal, and his vitriol was laced with blood as much venom. There was no such emotional reprieve here and John wasn’t sure which was better, to know that his rage was fueled by the heart he’d broken or by the disgrace of his presence.

“You’re right.” There was no use disputing it, even for the sake of his evidently ever-present ego. “You’re right, and I’ll… I’ll do better, alright? I’ll...do right by Jack. He deserves it. Am I gonna have to do it on my own? Or are we s’posed to part ways now?” 

He always tried for some failing last jab, a hope to needle the right spots to get _some_ kind of affirmation that he hadn’t expended all good grace that’d been offered and that someone still cared. Arthur seemed to concede him that, at least, settling back against the wall with less glower. “Oh, you’ll be stickin’ around.” 

John swallowed his relief, leaching his way towards the door while he still had the chance. Arthur’s voice perched, simultaneously ominous and reassuring, over his shoulder. 

“You’ll do right by that boy, I’ll make sure of it.” 

God, he really had no idea where to begin. He _wanted_ to do right by Jack, and it wasn’t just desperation to keep Arthur that made him want to, but it felt like he hardly knew the kid at all and every fatherly attempt on his part fell pitifully short. Abigail was right, he was no good for a child, and surely Jack would be better off without the taint of his father’s so-called legacy on his back. He was smart, creative, and could do a great deal better than dying young and angry out in the fringes. Than being raised by a man who could barely figure out himself, let alone another.

Or perhaps assuming he could do nothing good for Jack was just the easier option. Arthur seemed to think so. He didn’t think, or didn’t want to think, that he was letting his own desires overpower what he thought was right for Jack; they just… happened to coincide, in this specific instance. He didn’t want to give up. He didn’t… he was just afraid, of failing if he tried and maybe of what it would ask of him if he succeeded. Afraid of ruining Jack's life more than he already had, when he had so much potential for a happier one, after he'd already endured so much growing up in the gang. But still, nonetheless, afraid.

“Jesus,” he murmured, dropping onto the back stoop, head in his hands. He really was a jackass. 

Javier came out and joined him after a while. There was no way, in such a small house, that they all hadn’t heard Arthur’s words towards him, but Javier’s presence was merely peaceful accompaniment, and if judgment existed he was keeping it very well under wraps. 

“Told ya he’d be ordering us around soon enough.” He said, finally, staring up at the stars. John reached out to kick lightly at his spur, less an antagonizing response and more...reaching. Like the friendly contact might be nice. Javier made no remark of it and for that he was grateful.

“Are you staying?” John asked before he could stop himself. 

“For now.” Javier straightened his hat over his eyes, adjusting himself on the step until he could lean back and prop up his head on his folded arms. “Don’t think any of us know what we’re gonna do now that Dutch’s gone. Thinkin’ I might go west, myself.” He shrugged. “But I think it’s best we stick together until we figure it out.” 

The thought of Javier leaving tugged painfully at his heart, even as he saw the sense of it. He’d always had family in the gang, and Javier was as much his brother as any of them had been, but to John he would always be his first friend. They’d only just met when John left, and when he returned Javier had always endeavored to include him, he and Dutch really the only ones who welcomed him as though he’d never gone.

Dutch. His insides roiled with anger, the strongest he’d ever felt, matched only by the rage and fear he'd felt when he and Abigail couldn't find Jack anywhere in camp, when they realized the Braithwaites took him. Revenge was no small matter - it was at least partly to blame for their current predicament, if not pride, if not soullessness, but the truth did little to douse the flame. He’d left John and Javier for dead, he’d tried to kill Arthur, he'd gotten Jack kidnapped, and the countless other lives that were ruined or snuffed out at his whim. And he would pay for it, if it was the last thing John ever did.

Javier saw the barely-suppressed revulsion in John’s face and frowned. “Revenge is a fool’s errand, John,” he reminded him. John nodded, and it went in one ear and clear through the other.

\--

Sadie had no such reservations. Under the beaming sun of next noon she ran her currycomb over her stallion’s neck, rubbing tight circles against his coat. “I’d like to skin him alive,” she said, slapping the brush against her palm and sending off a cloud of dust, “An’ geld him with my own hunting knife. There ain’t a death out there too cruel for Dutch van der Linde.” 

“Javier said-” 

Sadie turned away from Bob at last, resting her weight on one leg, arms folded. “I can figure what Javier said. He ain’t wrong for thinkin’ it, and Charles ain’t either.” John wilted a little, but she continued on. “But we also ain’t wrong for thinkin’ that a man like that’s too dangerous to keep alive, an’ that he needs to pay for what he’s done.” 

John nodded, restored. It wasn’t a fool’s errand to pursue Dutch, not when he would ruthlessly pursue them in turn, and lay waste to all that was in his wake. With Micah alongside he’d proven himself to forgo all pretense of honor and nobility, and his wrath and pride ranged unheeded. They simply would not be safe if they let him make the first move. 

It was not exactly safe to meet him head on, either, but John did not heed this at the time. 

“If we catch wind of him,” he began, and Sadie responded in turn, finishing his sentence, “I’ll ride with you.” 

Until then they could only wait. He dipped his head in farewell to Sadie, leaving her to continue her task uninterrupted, and made his way back to the house; he was surprised to see Arthur on the step, leaning heavily against the post of the half-collapsed handrail, head tipped back to face the sun, eyes closed. 

“The doctor said you should be resting.” 

Arthur didn’t move, acknowledging him only with a dismissive grunt. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stalled once again, and he hated how being around Arthur seemed to fuzz up his brain and quash all his rational thought, however little of it he had. He sat, at last, on the step next to him, only just wide enough to accommodate them, their shoulders brushing. 

He swallowed. 

Arthur was the one to break the silence, and it was safe to look at him when his eyes were closed, John’s gaze catching on the faint sun-freckles that dusted the bridge of his nose, his beard untrimmed but gleaming gold in the light. “You stayed.” 

It was a strange thing to say, and it distracted John from his foolish mooning, furrowing his brow. “What?” 

“On the mountain. You stayed, and you’re still here.” There was a mild wonderment in Arthur’s tone, and that stabbed a lot deeper than his anger the night before. 

“Of course I did.” He stared at his boots. Was the trust between them truly that brittle? He wanted badly to be offended, but all he felt was self-reproach. What had he done to prove he’d changed, really, beyond his words? They seemed to mean so little. 

But Arthur was calm, and when he opened his eyes they were gentle, and John couldn’t help but lean into him where he could. Arthur raised his free arm to curl around his shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere,” John promised him again with vehemence, cheek against his collarbone, taking the risk of wrapping his arms carefully around Arthur’s waist. “Never again." Hearing Arthur's heartbeat under his head, he thought maybe this time Arthur would believe him.

Anyone could see them like this, awkwardly tangled on the cramped stairs, Arthur’s face in his hair; he remembered how badly he’d wanted that, how he’d begged for it, and when he got it at last the terror of reality sent him flying. He never thought he could earn it back. And as he sat there, for once feeling warm and safe and sane, the anger and fear in his mind finally sheathed its claws. 

Dutch was, for now, a distant recollection, and his thoughts went somewhere softer. “Ever thought about bein’ a rancher?” 

Arthur laughed, a wince following close behind. “Can’t say I have, no. Why?” 

“Don’t know.” John shrugged, abashed, ready to backtrack. “It’s an honest living.” 

There was quiet for a moment, and John worried that he might be treading too hard on ground that was only freshly planted, but Arthur tipped his head to nuzzle a bit at his temple, humming thoughtfully. “That might be one of your few good ideas,” he said, and John feigned indignance. 

Across the grass where the horses were hitched, Sadie was watching. She shook her head fondly and turned back to Bob, working knots out of his wiry dark mane. Arthur and John were both the most stubborn men she'd ever met in her life, and she'd met many a stubborn man, but even they could only cling to their pride for so long. Only then could they right the wrongs between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at last i reveal my bastardly intentions....a wish-fulfillment story about gay dad ranchers  
> john is boo boo the fool but he's workin' on it. what a mess.
> 
> we'll be seeing a familiar face next chapter! there's another pairing i have not yet introduced.


End file.
